


i mean it when i say i love you

by EvieSmallwood



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: M/M, Stozier, eating disorder tw, these two give me life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-04
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-11 07:18:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12930264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvieSmallwood/pseuds/EvieSmallwood
Summary: He hates vanilla ice cream, he hates the word ‘boobs’, and most of all, he hates Richie Tozier.Well, that last one isn’t true.





	i mean it when i say i love you

“You’re an ass, Rich.”

“Am not,” denied Richie, stumbling through the overgrowth of the Barrens (he’d rolled his Levi's up to his knees, and as a result looked ten times more dorky than usual). “How could I be? Last I checked I don't bray.”

Stan stopped. He turned to Richie, scowling. “That’s gotta be the lamest comeback in all of history.”

Richie grinned. “Yeah, I know. ’Bin working on it for three whole years.”

At that, the other boy rolled his eyes and kept trudging through the thickets. It was a hot day, the kind where your clothes stick to your skin; completely suffocating and utterly obnoxious. Just the right kind of day for a milkshake at the diner.

They reached the slope to the roadside and dragged their bikes out from under a bush, where Stan had suggested they hide them in lieu of a rack (Richie had gotten off a good one at that, spouting something like, ‘Too bad your Ma’s not around, or we could have used her rack instead’—which happened to be the source of Stan’s dissent with Rich; he just hadn’t been given a chance to voice it, as they’d run straight into Ben right after and spent the next two hours playing in the Barrens).

Richie had probably forgotten. He usually forgot most of his insults right after he made them.

That, Stan mused, was one of the unappealing aspects of Richie; he talked a good game about knowing he was a shithead (which he maybe did), but nonetheless you still had to remind him when you were pissed. If it were Bill that Stan was upset with—in some weird parallel universe where that was actually _possible_ —the older boy would have picked up on it (and even better; he wouldn't have said something like that in the first place). He would have apologised and actually meant it.

Sometimes Richie was pretty great, though. There were times when Stan saw something like a leader in him, and once or twice he had thought, somewhat traitorously, that if Bill wasn’t around maybe it would be Richie leading them through the Barrens every day, planning out their adventures. But that wasn't right, really, because Bill was the Idea Man and that was that; a pure, simple fact. He had leader slung over him, expected of him, simply because it was the most natural thing. Bill was the leader because Bill was the leader. Richie was a crazy shithead (who stepped up sometimes, when it mattered). He was a good second. If they’d been around a long time ago, maybe they all would have lived in one big castle—Stan liked to think about that. Bill, with his golden crown, and Stan as his advisor or something, sitting at his side all the time, having an excuse to just... look at him.

Richie raced ahead, pulling to a stop in the parking lot of the diner. He was already inside when Stan caught up. By the time Stan stepped into the blissfully cool building, Richie had already ordered a large vanilla shake (Stan hated vanilla, but Richie loved it).

They sat down in a booth. Stan drummed his fingers on the linoleum table, trying to focus on the music playing instead of Richie's twitching and humming.

“I’m mad at you,” he burst after a while.

Richie blinked. “Since when?!”

“Since you...” Stan lowered his voice, leaning in, “since you made fun of my mother's breasts.”

Richie laughed, loudly and giddily. “Jesus, Stanny, they’re called _boobs_ —does your old man call them bosoms, or something?”

Stan’s face flushed. He didn't care enough about... _those_... to warrant them any thought. And he certainly wasn't discussing them with his father. “What the _hell_ is the matter with you?!”

Richie rolled his eyes. “You’re being sensitive.”

“You’re weird,” Stan said, sort of not really meaning it, “and _invasive_.”

“A big word,” said Richie, nodding solemnly.

“This isn’t funny!”

But it didn't matter what it was, because their milkshake came. Dread filled Stan. He stared at it and swallowed hard, already feeling guilt rise inside of him. _I hate eating. I hate this._

Richie plunged two straws into the cup. He didn’t drink, though; instead he stared at Stan with a rare sobriety. “I’m sorry, Stan,” he said. “Really, I didn’t mean it—”

But Stan was already rising from the booth, eyes fixed on that shake, hands numb. “I... I don’t care. You don’t mean it anyway,” _I can't eat that I have to leave if I eat it I'll throw up_ “You’re... You’re just selfish, Rich.”

Richie recoiled like he’d been slapped. His eyes were wide. “Stan—”

“Just stop!” Stan threw a buck on the table and hurried out, ignoring Richie's calls after him. He grabbed his bike and, in no time, was racing down the road. 

* * *

 

It was dinner time when the phone rang the first time.

Stan was seated at the table, pushing around his peas with a fork, hoping the gaps would make it look like he’d eaten some. His mother chattered on about the book club she’d been going to, and his father listened patiently, the perfect amount of interest in his eyes.

That was what they were, wasn't it? Perfect. Poster. Not a hair out of place. Everything about them was wrong for this town and these people and so to make up for it, Andrea Uris went to book clubs and her husband went to work and Stan played with those Catholic kids no one really knew the names of (except Bill Denbrough; everyone knew his name). There was nothing wrong with them, so why were people always looking for something?

The phone rang—loudly and piercingly, a sharp interruption to Stan’s mother’s soft tone. They startled. Andrea was already folding her napkin and standing when Stan realised what the noise was.

“Hello?”

There was no audible response for Stan to hear, of course, but his heart was pounding anyway and he didn't quite know why.

It all made sense when his mother turned to him, though. “Stanley? It’s your friend, the Tozier boy—he wants to talk to you.”

Stan swallowed. _The Tozier boy_. It sounded so foreign and backward and blank. It wasn't _Richie_ , who was loud and brash and all the colours and sounds that the world made rolled into one human being. Richie was impossible and ridiculous and talked to much and he wasn't just some boy.

“I-I’ll call him back. Tomorrow.”

His mother paused, words crowding in her mouth but remaining unspoken. “Okay, dear.”

Stan didn’t call him back, nor did he answer the other three times Richie rang. None of the Uris’ did by some unspoken understanding.

Stan didn’t call back, and he didn’t go down to the Barrens for another two days.

* * *

 Then he did.

Stan was alone, walking toward the clubhouse with his hands stuffed deep in his pockets, and praying that Richie by some miracle wasn’t down there; _maybe he has to help out his dad, or maybe he's sick—maybe he just doesn't want to play today but please God, please, don't let him be down there._

He was, though, of course; voice drifting up from below as he argued with Eddie.

“Neapolitan is the best flavour!” Eddie was saying, loudly. This was followed by the sharp whizz of his aspirator.

Richie scoffed. “Everyone knows chocolate is the best,” he said, and Stan stopped short.

“I thought you liked vanilla,” came Eddie's reply. Stan was startled to realise that the clubhouse door was opening, and Rich and Eddie were emerging from it.

“Vanilla? Vanilla?! Well, boye, ye jest about lost yer mind if ye think I favour vanilla in the slightest—”

Stan yanked open the clubhouse door the rest of the way. “You _hate_ vanilla?!”

The losers (minus Ben and Bill) all started and blinked up at him, eyes adjusting to the brightness of daylight. Richie flushed, half out of the clubhouse. He scrambled to his feet. “Stan—”

“What do you mean you hate vanilla? You _always_ order vanilla!”

The blush deepened, reaching his neck. Richie swallowed. “Y-You like it, so—”

“No I don't. _I_ hate vanilla.”

“I’m _sorry!_ ”

They stared at one another for a moment, almost glaring, while the other losers exchanged bemused glances (because Richie never apologised, really, and not like that; because Richie never fucked up around anyone but Stan because he loved him so much he just didn't know how to be).

Richie lowered his gaze to the ground, scuffing the dirt with his shoe. “I thought you liked it, so I got it for you,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry.”

There was a soft thud. The two rounded on the treehouse door, which had been slowly and quietly shut. “Bevvie!” Rich kicked it.

“It looked like you two were having a moment,” Bev replied, voice muffled. “I thought we’d give you some space.”

Stan’s face was burning, and it wasn’t from the sun. He didn’t have _moments_ with Richie Tozier. It wasn’t like... They weren’t... “I—” he swallowed. “I have to go.”

“Stan!” This time Richie really came after him, grabbing his wrist as soon as he caught up with Stan.

They were in the trees, and hidden, and Stan’s heart was racing. “I don’t have moments with you,” he said, wincing at the edge in his own voice.

Richie gripped his wrist tighter. “Okay.”

“And I don't like vanilla,” Stan added.

“Okay.”

“And I don't like you.”

Richie let go. “Okay.”

Stan didn’t leave. Neither of them did. “I didn’t mean that,“ he whispered.

“Still said it.”

“You said my mother’s boobs were big.”

“I didn’t mean that either,” said Richie, a fire now lighting in his voice, “and you called me selfish.”

“Well...” Stan ran a hand over his dark hair, trying to gather his words. “Well I didn't mean that either.”

“I mean it when I say ‘I love you.’”

With that, all hell broke loose (not in the world, but in Stan’s heart; it was like everything that he had deliberately chosen not to feel was suddenly exposed, and he couldn’t breathe because _dammit_ ) “I mean it too.”

Richie relaxed. All of the tension melted out of him and suddenly he looked smaller (even though, by sixteen, he was getting to be taller than Stan). A smile was forming on his face. “Okay.”

And just like that, Richie kissed Stan (or maybe Stan kissed Richie, or maybe they kissed each other). It didn't really matter, because just how it was, it was perfect. They both seemed to pull together, and then break apart.

“Chocolate milkshake, then?”

Stan grinned. “Yeah. Okay, Rich.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> My soft sons! Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
